


worth

by RyDyKG



Series: Insouciant [7]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Fluff, Gen, Healing, Intrusive Thoughts, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Pets, Recovery, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Worth, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, in a way I guess idk, tfw you feeling bad so you write a fic, therapeutic writing, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29324487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyDyKG/pseuds/RyDyKG
Summary: Sometimes, he wakes up with voices in his head, calling him dumb and useless and thathe should just go do a flip off a tower now nobody cares-But it’s fine. He knows his worth now. He knows himself now. There’s no one around to beat him down like before. He’s fine.
Series: Insouciant [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061870
Comments: 11
Kudos: 222





	worth

**Author's Note:**

> I have very bad writer’s envy after reading a very poggers fic because my brain doesn’t want me to be happy so I have decided to write yet another short insouciant-verse fic because I can and I will
> 
> also please be careful!! there’s lot of depreciating stuff n thoughts in here, but please don’t take them to heart!

Sometimes, he wakes up with voices in his head, calling him dumb and useless and you should just go do a flip off a tower now nobody cares-

But it’s fine. He knows his worth now. He knows himself now. There’s no one around to beat him down like before. He’s fine.

...no he’s not.

It’s hard to continue going, sometimes. Not in the sense that he wants to die, no, but it’s hard to continue to live a peaceful life when he knows that Dream is still out there, that everyone else is still out there, that _Tubbo_ is still out there. 

Tommy’s not a hero, and he has never been one, but it seems like everyone wanted him to become one, and so he had. But it was painful, it was tiring, to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. It was tiring to continue going, to do what everyone expected him to do: to be TommyInnit and Theseus and L’manburg’s hero and Dream’s enemy and so many more-

And despite all that, a part of him still wants to go back. No matter how nice it is to simply play with his pets, or to just build more and more things, he still wants to go back.

_You left them behind,_ his own mind taunts him. You left all of your friends and family behind. _What do you think Dream will be doing to them now? You’re a monster, a coward, the one who ran away when things got too rough, the one who disappeared when it was too hard._

Tommy doesn’t cut himself off entirely. He still checks his communicator, still sees the messages people whisper to him. He still sees the death messages, and maybe it’s foolish to take comfort in the fact that Dream hasn’t killed Tubbo yet, but he’s long stopped being embarrassed by what he finds solace in.

He doesn’t need to be a hero to make his pets happy. He doesn’t need to be Dream’s enemy to succeed. He doesn’t need to be compared to a mythological figure in order to be recognised as _someone_.

He’s a person. And right now, that’s enough. 

‘Your life doesn’t revolve around Tubbo or Dream,’ he thinks to himself, staring at the mirror. ‘You are not defined by the people around you.’

_Your worth is only because you’re useful, because you can fight and protect_ , his stupid, stupid mind says, despite all his persistent reminders. _You’re dead weight now. You’re useless now. There’s so many people better than you, why bother trying anymore?_

He clenches his hands around the sink. He takes deep breaths, one after another.

“I have worth,” he says outloud, repeating it until his tongue starts to feel numb, because he has to remind himself. “My name is Tommy, and I have worth.”

Maybe one day, he can permanently believe it.

He rinses off his face, and heads out to make breakfast.

Sometimes, his stupid thoughts don’t disappear, even when he tries to have fun with Day and Night and Clementine, even when he tries to distract himself by building and planning and mining.

On those days, he grabs a book and quill from one of his shelves dedicated to empty and unused books, and writes.

Usually, they’re about Dream, because his stupid thoughts usually sound like him anyways. He has to make another shelf for his collection of ‘Dream Dies #’. Some of the ideas are repeating already, but he ignores that.

‘It doesn’t matter how good these books are,’ he reminds himself, in the middle of writing a poem about him and Wilbur. ‘They help. They don’t need to be good.’

Clementine flies into the room, and lands on his table. She brushes her head against his hand, as if to say, “You’re good enough. You don’t have to be the best in order to have worth.”

Then, she flies away. Tommy goes back to writing, this time planning out a song. Maybe he’ll be able to sing this one.

For as long as he’s known himself, Tommy has never been the best. He’s been good, sure. Better than most, yeah. But he has never been the best.

Technoblade had been the best at fighting. Wilbur had been the best at his words. Phil had been the best at surviving.

He can name others, everyone who’s been better at him, who has been the best at something that he had done. He has a long list of names that he’s been compared to, often being the one that’s weaker or lesser or just _not that good_ compared to them.

He’s never been able to stop comparing himself to the people around him.

Here, out on a sandy beach, besides crystal clear waters, it’s just him and his pets. There’s no one to compare himself to, no one to judge him for what and how he does his things. Out here, he’s good at what he’s doing — creating a safe place for him and his pets. He’s good at that. 

He’s good enough.

He’ll remind himself of that everyday, when things start to get bad, when his thoughts start to really hurt. And eventually, it might just become true.

There are days when his thoughts really hurt. Those days, he lies in bed and doesn’t do anything, and usually his pets — the absolute sweethearts they are — drag him out of bed by bothering him. Tommy doesn’t deserve them, he really doesn’t.

He spills his thoughts in books, on walls, in words and drawings and paint and builds and whatever he can do, whatever he can spill his emotions out with. Because at the very least, he can get them out, even if there’s no one to tell him that it’ll be okay, that everything will be fine.

It’s not a fast or a nice process. There are days when he looks up, and thinks about how nice the view would be from above. There are days when he thinks that the world would’ve been better without his words or his thoughts or everything that he’s caused.

But he’ll manage. He’s been managing. He’ll be fine eventually.

He’s Tommy, after all.

**Who or what do you live for?** His own words ask him. The words stand out from the others on the page of the book, bolded and underlined far too many times to count. Below it are words upon words of answers, ever-changing, some even scratched out.

There’s names among them, like ‘Tubbo’ and ‘Wilbur’ and his pets. There’s reasons, too, like ‘because Wilbur would’ve wanted me to’, ‘because Tubbo would be sad’, ‘Dream’s still out there’, ‘I have so much more to do’, ‘because the pets would be left alone’, and many more.

More often than not, though, it’s just three simple words. _I don’t know._

But there’s still one answer that hasn’t been written. Tommy knows himself now, he believes in himself now, even if it’s hard to do that sometimes.

With a trembling hand, he writes, _myself._

Someday, it’ll stick around. But for now, Tommy finds comfort in writing scathing words about anyone and anything, writes words that would never be shown to anyone but himself, and always, _always_ reminds himself:

**_I have worth._ **

**Author's Note:**

> before you ask yes I am fine I just have writer’s envy. also this turned out a lot angstier than I was originally expecting so
> 
> special thanks to the entire your name album on spotify for being background music while I write this


End file.
